


On the Threshold of Christmas

by Manniness



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/Manniness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas truly is a magical time for wishes... and dreams.</p><p>See individual chapters for ratings and warnings.</p><p>Written for the Alice in Wonderland <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/aiw_advent/">Aiw_Advent</a> 2010 on Live Journal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Almost Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: K+ (for K-I-S-S-I-N-G!... and Alice in a nightgown)
> 
> Summary: Well, it’s not exactly mistletoe... that must be why it seems to work so much better!

  


“Alice... Alice...”

  
It wasn’t the sound of the whisper that woke her, but the gentle caresses through her hair. A few strands caught and pulled and she opened her eyes with an affronted gasp.

  
She rolled over in bed, casting her gaze about for the offender who had snagged her hair and woken her, but the guilty party had already left her bedside. The soft creak of a floorboard near her door had her looking up and across the room.

  
A mauvishly colored sash fluttered around the edge of the doorjamb and a shadow moved in the hall beyond.

  
Without a thought or a care for the fact that Winter had arrived weeks ago and the floor was cold and her feet were bare, Alice threw back the covers and charged after the person who had been in her room.

_  
A man_ , she decided, tripping quietly down the stairs after him. She leaned forward, hurried her steps, but he was always just a little too far ahead, a little too deep in shadow for her to see him properly. She wanted to shout, demand to know why this man had broken into her mother’s house! Especially with it being the Christmas season now and the holiday itself less than two weeks away!

  
But she did not shout. She hurried after him.

  
At the end of the hall, his shadow slipped through the front door. Alice grabbed the first coat she found and a pair of gardening boots and clamored outside. Interestingly enough, he hadn’t gone far.

  
“Alice,” he said and she looked into his bright green eyes, his happy smile with its perfectly tea-treated teeth.

   
“I know you,” she replied, cautiously making her way down the icy front steps. “I _know_ you...”

  
“Yes,” he lisped softly. “You do.”

  
There was something about him that drew her closer... closer... until she was nearly in his arms, which hung at his sides. She studied his selection of jacket and vest and ascot, each clashing delightfully with the other. She lifted her gaze to his hat, lowered her gaze along the sash that had fluttered through the open doorway of her bedroom.

  
“Why are you here?” she heard herself say.

  
“Because I missed you,” he replied with such innocence and honesty, that she couldn’t stop herself from closing the distance between them. He held perfectly still as she lifted a hand to his bright, gravity-defying hair and gently brushed her fingers through it. After a moment, his own hand lifted in response and Alice sighed at the sight of two of her long hairs caught up in a blue thimble on his middle finger.

  
“Why did you bring me out here? It’s December!”

  
“Do you feel chilled?” His brows twitched together in an acute case of Concern.

  
Alice paused and considered that. “Actually... no.” She looked down at the ice-encrusted snow beneath her too-large boots. Frowning, she met his gaze again and demanded, “Why don’t I feel cold?”

  
“Because this is a dream,” he replied.

  
“How can you be sure?”

   
“Because _I_ am dreaming _you_.” He looked inexplicably proud of this accomplishment.

  
She giggled, grinned, and guessed, “Then we both must be asleep right now.”

  
“I should think so.”

   
“What is your name?” she wondered aloud. Her gaze darted to his top hat. Hat! “Hatter,” she whispered. “What is your name?”

  
“Tarrant,” he replied, his expression softening. “Tarrant Hightopp.” And then, smiling, he remarked, “As proper introductions go, I’m afraid that wasn’t one. It was far, far too late in coming.”

  
“But it did come, so no harm done.”

  
“I’m glad.”

  
“Mr. Hightopp—”

  
“Tarrant, Alice. Please, call me Tarrant.”

   
“Tarrant...” She liked the sound of his name. She especially liked saying it. And, even more than that, she liked saying it to _him_ , for the smile he gave her was beyond compare. “Why did you dream me?”

  
“Because I have something to tell you, Alice.”

  
“Yes?”

  
He gathered her hands in his own and placed something small and uncomfortably pointy in her cupped hands. “Holly is a wonderfully romantic sort of bush,” he murmured. “It quite likes the ledges above doorways. The view from so high is quite unique, I’m told.”

  
Alice laughed. “What are you talking about?” 

  
“I’m talking about the kiss I never gave you, Alice. Holly. Doorways. A high view.”

  
And then he stepped back and released her hands. Unable to resist investigating, Alice dropped her gaze to the prickly object in her palms and—

*~*~*~*

  


  
Alice opens her eyes to the bright light of morning.

  
Morning.

   
It shouldn’t _be_ morning. It should be night, still. And she should be standing outside in the snow talking to—

   
With a gasp, Alice flies out of bed. She nearly crashes head-first down the stairs. Her mother shouts at her – honestly, a newly-promoted company _associate_ should not be tumbling through the house! – but Alice is too busy wrestling herself into the first coat she grabs. She jams her feet into a pair of gardening boots – mens by the enormous size of them and most likely the butler’s – and barrels outside.

  
She doesn’t care that people are on the street and that she is still in her nightdress and it’s cold and icy and her mother is shouting (this time in alarm)...

  
Alice slips and slides down the steps and kneels beside the stairs. There, in the narrow flower bed which hosts daffodils in the spring, growing up from the snow, is a sprout of what looks like... a tiny holly bush.

  
“Hello...” Alice whispers, smiling. “I believe we’ve already met.” She reaches out and gently cups the thing in her bare hands. “Would you like to come inside? I have a nice doorway with a high view...”

   
If there had been a breeze, what happens next could have been easily explained. But there _is_ no breeze. There is nothing to explain the fact that suddenly, the tiny bush shivers and then _leans_ into Alice’s hand, falls into her palm, and lies there peacefully, trustingly, expectantly.

  
Alice gathers it up from the hard snow and takes it inside. She clomps through the house, managing a mumble to placate her mother even though she doesn’t bother to take off her boots or replace the coat in the foyer closet.

   
She heads upstairs, to her room and then to the doorway that it shares with her personal office. Once it had been a playroom, but Alice is not a little girl anymore... although perhaps she _does_ still play. The trading business is awfully adventurous, she has heard, and despite the legal tedium, there is play to be had. So, turning this room into an office had not really been that big of a change... more an _adaptation._

  
Alice pulls out her desk chair and a bit of string (for packages) and a tack, and then fixes the little sprig of holly squarely above the door in the office. She climbs down and surveys the room.

  
“Yes, those are the very best windows in the house. I’m sure you’d agree if I gave you the full tour.”

  
“That’s very kind of you to offer.”

  
Alice pivots back around, her breath tangling in her throat, and gapes at the man standing under the holly in her office doorway.

   
“Hatter?” she gasps. “ _Tarrant?_ ”

  
His grin widens. “Alice! You look precisely the same now as when I last saw you!”

  
“In your dream, you mean!” she accuses, smiling.

   
“ _That_ ,” he says, “is an excellent rhyme.”

  
“What are you doing here? How did you get here?” She leans around him to check that her bedroom door is closed – which it thankfully is! – and sighs with relief. When she leans back and looks at him expectantly, he replies.

  
“The holly, of course. As I explained earlier.”

  
“Did you?” But she doesn’t press the point. He obviously feels his explanation had been more than sufficient. And it must have been because here he is. “And why have you come to visit me, then?”

  
“I believe I also explained that quite thoroughly,” he answers softly, shifting toward her without leaving the threshold. “I missed you.”

   
“And I’ve missed you.” Yes, he had been so afraid she would forget him... but she hadn’t. Some days she thinks would be much easier if she _had_ forgotten him. In fact, now that she thinks about it, why hadn’t she recognized him immediately in her dream? Perhaps because _he_ had dreamed her and he hadn’t expected her to remember?

  
Tarrant clears his throat.

  
“I am not sure how long the holly will oblige us – permit us to share doorways...” he says warningly.

  
“Oh, are you standing in your doorway now, too?”

  
“Of course! Where else would I host the holly?”

  
“I don’t know. That place is usually reserved for mistletoe.”

  
“Does it work?”

  
“Only for kissing passers-by,” she admits.

   
“I am _not_ a passer-by,” he declares. And then he kisses her.

  
Alice leans into him, grasps his arms and holds him in her reality as his lips gently brush against hers. It is too brief, of course, and when he leans away, she licks her lips and stares brazenly at his.

   
“You gave me the kiss you mentioned,” she observes. “If that _was_ the one you mentioned.”

  
“It was,” he admits. “However... I am faced with a conundrum now.”

  
“And what would that be?”

   
“I found that _one_ to my liking so much that I would very much like another...”

   
This time, Alice links her fingers together at the back of his neck and presses her lips to his. He sighs happily and his hands settle on her waist and she doesn’t care that she’s wearing a coat over her nightdress and too-large boots on her bare feet. She kisses him back and he pulls her closer and their mouths open and breaths jumble together and she has never felt like this before! Like she is made of something light and sparkle-y and has the ability to _soar through the air!_

  _  
Is this what it feels like to fly?_

   
“Alice,” he whispers between kisses. “I miss you, please... Come back to Underland.”

  
“I will,” she promises. “I told you I would.”

   
His mouth slants over hers once more and her groan tumbles out of her throat and across the bridge that his tongue makes between them. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulls back. His arms loosen from where they had banded around her.

  
“But not yet,” he sighs, reading her expression.

  
“Not yet,” she agrees. And then she looks up to the happy plant above his head and grins. “But I think I have a companion for my trip this spring.”

  
Alice gives her full attention to Tarrant Hightopp, who beams happily. “Holly,” he tells her, “adore all manner of traveling.”

  
Green eyes glittering with happiness, he leans down and presses his lips to hers briefly, softly. It is not a kiss Good-bye. It is a kiss that is a Good-bye For Now.

   
“When will I see you again like this?” she asks, pressing her face to his shoulder and inhaling deeply. “Under the holly, I mean,” she clarifies before he can point out that she is not seeing much of _him_ at the moment, only his jacket and collar.

  
“Whenever we both pass this way again,” he assures her.

  
She considers that. “Were you waiting long for me?”

   
“Yes,” he answers, and she realizes he is not talking about waiting on a threshold, under a clipping of holly. Well, he is not _only_ talking about waiting on a threshold, under a clipping of holly.

  
“It won’t be much longer.” She thinks of the trip to China... She does not expect that she will love another land or its people like she loves Underland, like she loves this man... but she would still like to go, to see, to do...

  
“Take as long as you need,” he tells her, brushing her tangled hair back over her shoulder. “Now that I know you remember...” He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead... and then, with eyes that are bright with promise and happiness, he moves away. “Until we meet again, Alice.”

  
She watches as he steps back, out of the threshold... and disappears.

  
“Until then,” she agrees, still smiling.

  
And then she looks up.

   
“You,” she tells the holly, “are the guest of honor on the maiden voyage of _The Wonder_.”

  
And it is not her imagination, she decides, that the little plant gleams and twitches with energy before subsiding.

  
Nor had it been her imagination that Tarrant had pulled her into his dream, had told her how to open a doorway to Underland, had stood here on the threshold to her office, had kissed her, had held her, had promised to wait for her...

  
No, the tingling in her blood, the taste of him on her lips, and the two red hairs caught in her grasp attest to the truth.

*~*~*~*


	2. Holly Remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M (for some serious sensuality and steaminess... oh, and a sudden existential crisis which leads to Angst)
> 
> Summary: It turns out that doorways are rather agreeably amorous places!

 

Alice remembers!

  
Alice...  _remembers!_

  
“Alice... remembers... me,” Tarrant murmurs to himself through the grin that he cannot banish from his face.

   
“Ar, I _know_. You’ve only said so a Mad-March-Hare’s dozen times today!” Mally informs him in a tetchy tone. “An’ tha’s not counting from when yah _started_ saying it _twelve days ago!_ ”

  
“Twelve?” Tarrant parrots, blinking.

  
“Thirty-eight!” Thackery announces. “Tha’d be a dozen tah mae reckoning!”

  
Mally glares at Tarrant over the undisturbed plate of scones and grouches, “Only thirty-eight? I’m sure it’s more...”

   
“ _And_ ,” Tarrant adds, blithely ignoring the dormouse’s nattering. “She _misses_ me.”

  
Thackery giggles. “A lucky thing, that! The Vorpal Sword’s meant fer Jabberwocks!”

   
“And I am _not_ a Jabberwock,” he agrees, buttering a slice of bread with much gusto. “Fair laddies d’nae kiss Jabberwocks, do they?”

   
“No’ that I’m aware of,” the hare replies. “Mayhap tha’s a job fer _unfair_ laddies?”

  
Tarrant considers that, his brows twitching this way and that, his eyes wide with worry for the theoretical _unfair_ lads.

   
Mally sighs. “Well, at least that’s an improvement on your _other_ mood,” she grumbles.

  
“Spoons!” Thackery agrees and Tarrant sits up straight with what he imagines must be quite a goofy grin on his face.

  
“I suppose I am,” he acknowledges.* “Did you know that Alices sometimes wear garden boots indoors?”

  
“Argh!” Mally declares. “Enough, ’Atter! Go on and have another visit with her and leave us in peace!”

  
“ _I_ love a gehd _roman-tic_ story,” Thackery argues.

  
Mally rolls her eyes.

  
Tarrant frets. “I couldn’t possibly...! Well, it was only just yesterday afternoon that we crossed paths under the holly and—”

  
“Crossed paths?” Mally mocks him. “Yah mean _she_ finally noticed you’d been waiting for her for _hours on end!_ ”

  
Tarrant clears his throat and inspects his bluest thimble. “Well... patience is a virtue, Mally,” he counters in what he believes to be an admirably reasonable tone.

  
“No, it ain’t,” she snorts. “It’s a pain in the—!”

  
“Crumpet!” Thackery shouts, slamming his fist down on the table in rapid succession, causing the tray of aforementioned confections to shimmy toward his place setting.

  
Tarrant considers biting back a grin at Mally’s consternated expression, but – in the end – decides against it.

  
“Blunderin’...” she mutters. “I’ve had enough o’ this!”

  
Tarrant leans over and peers at her from around the edge of the cloth-draped table corner as she slides down to the floor, her hatpin sword clanking merrily in its scabbard. “Where are you off to, then? We’ve yet to pass ’round the plum pudding.”

   
“I’m gonna do what you _ought_ to have done _before_ you invited us to tea to talk of nuthin’ but _Alice_ ,” she informs him, now striding toward the open parlor door. “I’m goin’ across the hall to yer workshop and checkin’ the threshold. I guess it’s too much to hope _she_ ’ _s_ waiting there for _you_ for bloody once!”

   
“Mally!” he scolds her. True, he _had_ been the one to initiate his and Alice’s repeated rendezvous over the last week-and-a-bit; and, true, he had manfully refrained from kissing her _too_ many times; and, true, he’d rather like to dispense with that obnoxious “too” that precedes “many kisses” and simply touch his lips to hers as many times and as often as he likes (which would be Quite Often, indeed!) but surely he hasn’t been overly – _unbearably_ – lovesick!

   
“Mally, Alice is _busy_ today. It’s Christmas or some such thing Above and she is spending the day with her family!”

   
The door shuts behind the dormouse with an echoing _thump!_

  
Thackery looks up at the closed door and sneezes. “She’ll be back.”

  
“Aye,” Tarrant agrees, forcing himself to stay in his seat despite how his feet itch to dash across the hall and check the very threshold Mally had mentioned.

  
Thackery makes a comment about the design on his plate.

  
Tarrant agrees it’s lovely and has to bite his tongue from expounding on how Alice is lovelier.

  
The hare clears his throat and swirls his tea in his cup.

  
The Hatter adjusts his cuffs and centers his saucer in front of him.

  
A clock in the room – resentful because it had not been invited to take tea with them – ticks a bit and tocks some more.

  
Finally, Tarrant _must_ ask: “Do you really think Alice might be waiting for me?”

   
Thackery twitches – a very versatile gesture which, unfortunately, means both _yes_ and _no_ , depending on the circumstances... but more often than not means _Pass the sugar an_ _’ mind yer hat, lad_ _!  Cat!  
_

  
Before Tarrant can coax a verbal reply from his good friend, the door bursts open. The door knob squeals in fright as it zooms toward the wall.

  
“I knew it!” a voice crows, startling not only Tarrant and Thackery: the bird in the cuckoo clock erupts from its nest, screeching in surprise.

  
“Ouch!” the brass door knob grunts as it hits the wall.

  
“Where’s th’ Bandersnatch?!” Thackery shouts, collecting the nearest teapot and tensing to spring off in a frantic dash for safety.

  
“What did you see in the doorway!” Tarrant excitedly demands, his bow tie fluffing up to his chin and jaw.

   
Mally fists her paws and plants them on her mousy hips. With a smug grin, she informs him, “What makes yah think I even went across the hall to _look?_   Eh?  Maybe I was just listenin’ at th’ door ’cause I _knew_ yah wouldn’t be able to talk about nuthin’cept _her!_ ”

   
Deflating with disappointment, Tarrant blindly reaches out and removes the teapot from Thackery’s grip by its spout. Sighing, he sets it on the table with a _clunk!_

  
“Sit down, Thackery. There’s no Bandersnatch.”

  
“Ar. Al’righ’ then...”

  
When Tarrant turns back to the table, he finds himself on the receiving end of Mally’s rather unsympathetic smirk. Tarrant glances left, glances right, and then – lowering his chin a bit – whispers, “Have I missed something, Mally?”

  
“Yer missing it right now,” she tells him.

  
“Am I?”

  
“Alice.”

  
“Alice?”

  
“Alice,” she repeats with a firm nod and a gleam in her dark eyes, “dressed to outshine the White Queen, is waitin’ for yah on the threshold if yah’d deign to—”

  
The door to the tea parlor slams shut behind him before Mally can finish her sentence. It probably wouldn’t have been all that exciting a conclusion in comparison to the climax, actually. Truly, nothing could sound better to his ears than “Alice is waiting for you”.

  
He gives himself a shake as, despite the mental assertion, several other phrases – each more blood-boiling and heart-swelling and mind-boggling than the previous one – crowd and clamor for his attention. But he does not permit them leeway! He will see Alice, he knows. That is enough. And, with a deep breath, he steps into the doorway beneath the holly.

*~*~*~*

  


  
“Mally was right,” he hears himself whisper. Alice turns toward him and answers his observation with a smile and sparkling eyes. 

  
He continues, “You _do_ look lovely. As always, Alice. Lovely as always.”

  
She grins at the pronouncement and reaches for his hands. “I missed you. It simply hasn’t been Christmas today without you, not after you’ve given me this wonderful gift—” Her gaze leaves his to briefly encompass the threshold, the door jamb, the holly, _him_... “—and...” Her smile takes a turn for the muchy at this point. “... all those kisses.”

  
“Are you quite sure I didn’t _steal_ them, Alice?”

  
“Not a one. All were freely given.”

  
“This one as well?” he inquires, leaning toward her and brushing his lips across hers. The warm nearness of her and the gentle sigh that escapes her lips makes his ears shiver and his spine tingle and his toes curl. She kisses him back and his fingertips dare to dance over the ringlets that have escaped her rather restrictive and uncelebratory hairstyle. The kiss is brief, but he lingers, leans in, and breathes in her scent directly from that warm place beneath her ear that her up-swept hair has revealed.

  
He shudders with delight at the unanticipated opportunity.

  
“Hm,” Alice replies. “Have you just come from tea?”

  
He leans back, startled and pleased that she seems to have enjoyed his scent as much as he had enjoyed hers. “Yes. I’m afraid I was boring Mally into a very irritable mood, which is why she came to see if you were here, by any chance.”

  
“I’m glad she did.”

  
“I am as well.” The words sound horribly inadequate as a measure of his true gratitude.

  
Alice continues, her fingers warm and strong around the one hand of his that she still clasps. “It was lovely to see her again. It’s a shame we can’t fit a tea table in the doorway or I might be able to sit down with all of my friends and you.”

  
“You count me out amongst your friends, Alice?” he inquires, unsure if he ought to be Concerned or Overjoyed.

  
“I count you apart,” she admits. “Because that classification is rather crowded, and while I don’t mind crowds, especially friendly ones, I’d rather not share you with them.”

  
“You wouldn’t?” he prompts, mesmerized by the flush in her cheeks and the eager happiness in her eyes.

  
Alice shakes her head. “I’d prefer to spend time with you in a place that is only for you and I... no matter how kind and generous our friends are.”

  
“They are kind enough to understand and generous enough not to intrude,” he replies, thinking of Mally’s knowing smirks and Thackery’s joyous shouts. Boisterous they both may be, but not here. Not now...

  
He lifts his other hand to frame her face. He does not ask for this kiss, but she lifts her face toward his, sensing his intent. How many kisses has she given him? More than enough to return him to prison should it suddenly be judged that he had _stolen_ them!

  
Tarrant inhales sharply as her fingers dance along his neck, under his collar before questing into his hair. He feels Great Regret when Alice pulls back.

  
“It’s getting late,” she whispers, not looking happy at all about that fact. “Dinner will be starting soon. I must go...”

  
“Dinner?” he asks, pressing a kiss to her temple. “This is Christmas Dinner? The one you mentioned previously?”

  
Alice nods. “Yes.”

  
“With a multitude of guests?” he murmurs against her cheek.

  
She sighs. “Too many. With dancing and pleasantries and all sorts of boring propriety.”

  
Something about her words rings through his head and, suddenly, Tarrant _understands_ why she is wearing this incomparable garment with her hair styled and her Alice scent mixed in with what must have been the perfumed water of a midday bath.

  
“Dancing,” he repeats, freezing. “Pleasantries. Propriety... proprietary... property...!” He gasps.

  
Her hands cover his. “Tarrant?”

  
There will be lads at this dinner, he realizes. Young lads with fortunes and dreams and charming smiles. Lads who are not so old, so mad, so poverty-stricken, so used-up and heartbroken...!

  
He shudders. “Alice...” Oh, how he wishes he could be one of those men for her – a man who is just contemplating his first, brave step into a new world rather than stumbling along the underused, overgrown, and ill-maintained rutted track that stretches between his past and a monotonous future.

  
How ridiculous of him to think that Alice would be happy walking that road with him!

  
“Tarrant,” she whispers, petting his work-abused fingers and tartan-covered hands.

  
Alices need freedom, a free range, as it were! There is no adventure awaiting _him_ on his path! His adventure is over, done with. The White Queen reigns again and his family is still dead and how can he ask Alice to be his Everything when he has _nothing_ to give her?!

  
Nothing except a good-bye.

  
He leans away, opens his eyes, stares into hers which are shining with youth and vitality and curiosity and questions and...

  
And if this is to be his good-bye to her, then let her Remember it!

  
Alice gasps when he reaches for her, presses his mouth to hers and takes _full_ advantage of her surprise. The other side of her lips is warm and wet and – in this moment – _just for him!_ She is his now – right now! – and he is hers and he knows it is not possible for a thing to be possessed, owned, for all time. He tells himself that this moment is enough. He will take this moment. He will give Alice whatever she will allow him to bestow, for, truly, whatever is left of his shattered soul is hers, has always been hers and he will die before he sees it in the hands of another!

_  
Alice_...

  
His every thought is of _her_ as he Reaches, Gives, Impresses his existence upon her, for if _she_ will remember him, then he will never again be lost.

*~*~*~*

  


  
Alice gasps as the kiss deepens beyond anything he has given her before. This is not a friendly kiss, nor a courting kiss... This is a _bedroom_ kiss. The kiss of Lovers. Her heart pounds and she can feel heat dancing under her tightly bound hair along her scalp and on the crooks of her elbows and behind her knees and... _Goodness!_ She feels hot in the most _unlikely_ of places. In fact, a place that she hasn’t had much interaction with at all suddenly becomes rather insistent at making her acquaintance...

   
Or perhaps it seeks to make _Tarrant_ ’ _s_ acquaintance and she moans even as her hips press mindlessly against his. She thinks, perhaps, she hears some sort of growl from him but she can’t be sure and she’s not about to stop the proceedings and _ask!_

  
He crowds her and Alice stumbles back until she comes up against the door jamb. It presses squarely between her shoulders, along her spine, and against her tail bone. She tightens her grip on Tarrant’s lapels – when had her hands wandered over there? – and pulls him closer. One arm comes around her waist, pulls her away from the wooden frame and presses the two of them together – presses that unspeakable part of her against the unspeakable part of him and _oh it **is** a pleasure to make his acquaintance!_

   
He shifts, widening his stance and Alice wishes he would hold her with _both_ arms – perhaps with one hand in her hair? She rather likes it when he dares to be so familiar! And, yes, one arm is like steel around her waist but the other, she senses, is above her head, his hand clutching the door frame for balance. She supposes she could open her eyes and confirm that, but, actually...

  
She pushes toward him and pulls him toward her and she wants...!

  
“Tarrant...” she murmurs when his mouth frees hers and migrates along her jaw and down her neck. “Ahhh...”

  
“Hmm,” he agrees, his hips pressing against hers, rolling in a rhythm that is both strange and _necessary_... A rhythm that is _known_ to her instincts and...

  _  
Dear Lord, is it supposed to feel this way?_

  
She feels as if she might futterwhacken right here, in his arms!

  
“Please...” she whines, rubbing against him in an approximation of the vague, abbreviated motions he is making toward her.

  
He gasps, presses his teeth against her skin. “Alice... I...”

  
For an instant – a glorious instant – he moves impossibly closer! The layers of cloth between them cannot insulate his heat from her. He’s so very warm that she nearly expects their clothing to melt away like butter on watchworks. She gives a thought for the uncomfortable angles of the wooden door jamb and decides that this – whatever this is... whatever this will become! – will be worth a few bruises... And then...!

   
Alice struggles for breath, startled. Tarrant stands opposite her on the threshold, his hands on her arms and looks as if he is trying to brace himself _away_ from her.

  
“I beg your pardon,” he mumbles in a rush. “I should not... I musn’t... I must go. Fairfarren, Alice.”

   
“No, Tarrant! _Wait!_ ”

  
But it is too late – he is already gone.

*~*~*~*

Notes:

  


* Thanks to Master Researcher Wanderamaranth , I learned that “spoons” is Victorian slang for “to fancy” or “to have a crush on” someone. As in: “That lad is spoons for her.”

Also: The reference to the Hatter being in prison is from Lewis Carroll’s book: Through the Looking Glass.

And: I did zero research about Christmas dinner customs in England during the 19th century so I have no idea if it was popular to have large dinner parties or not.

  



	3. Christmas Ribbons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: M (for reference to sexual situations of the solo variety)
> 
> Summary: Tarrant hears the words he’d only ever entertained in his dreams.

  


“Tarrant... _Tarrant_...”

   
The sound of his name, whispered in Alice’s voice, was a call he could not deny. He looked up, surprised to find Alice in his workshop, most especially after what had happened on the threshold... Why, he had very nearly... and she had been so... and it had nearly made him _sob_ to tear himself away from her... and even after he had... _dealt_ with the issue of his arousal, he had been unable to _look_ at the doorway let alone place himself in it it to see if Alice had still been there, waiting for him.

He’d feared that she would be gone.

He’d feared that she would have taken down the holly and left it on the threshold for him to collect: _fairfarren... **forever.**_

And yet, he’d feared that she would be waiting.

  
He’d feared that she would be Muchness itself.

  
He’d feared that she would ask _Why_...

  
He’d feared that he would not be able to bid her good-bye a third time.

   
He blinked up at this Alice who was _not_ standing in the doorway between his workroom and the old, cluttered and full-to-bursting storage closet.

  
“Alice? What are you doing here?”

  
“I came to tell you something,” she said simply, trailing her fingers over a spillage of ribbons that arched like a rainbow over the cluttered corner of the table. “And I won’t even make you go outside in the snow for it.”

  
“You won’t?”

  
“Would you prefer that I did?”

  
“I prefer you,” he heard himself helplessly confess, unable to derail, detain, or detour the inconvenient truth. “Whatever pleases you.”

  
“Then why did you leave so suddenly?” He had to turn away at the disappointment in her eyes. “I’ve never felt like that before,” she continued, innocently twisting the knife in his heart. “You made me feel such... wondrous things and I—”

  
“Stop, Alice,” he begged, holding up a hand and fisting the other against the tabletop to remind himself to _stay in his seat_. He could not – _must_ not – leap over this table and...!

  
She hesitated, but he knew the silence would not last for long. In a whisper, she queried, “Is that what they mean by making love?”

  
He dropped his hand to the table and spread his arms wide, as if bracing himself. “Aye.”

  
“And you... want to do that... with me?”

  
“Alice,” he pleaded. “Please, I’ve been a fool to think... to imagine... to _dream..._ ” He shook his head. “Let this be fairfarren, lovely Alice. You have such... _adventures_ before you...”

  
“We’re in one now,” she informed him with a rather determined gleam in her eye.

  
He considered that for a moment – upside down and inside out – and found it to be true. “We are.”

  
“And I’ve noticed something about adventures in general.”

  
“What is that?” he heard himself ask.

  
She smiled and he felt his heart suddenly spin and dance the futterwhacken in his chest. “I prefer them with you.”

  
“You do?”

  
“I do.”

  
He opened his mouth to reply to that but it took several breathless attempts before his voice realized his intent and deigned to cooperate. “Alice... is that what you wanted to tell me?”

  
“Not quite. Do you still want to hear it?”

  
He was not sure. Not sure at all! “Yes...”

  
She leaned forward and he shivered as her fingertips – smooth and uncallused, so unlike his! – brushed over his bottom lip. She breathed, “I love you.”

 

*~*~*~*

 

Tarrant opens his eyes and blinks at the sewing machine in his line of vision. He had dozed off here, yes, sometime after he had left Alice on the threshold, had very nearly pivoted smartly back to her and rucked up her lovely, unwrinkled skirts and... But he hadn’t! He had flung himself at his workbench and had... taken himself in hand, so to speak.

  
He ought to feel ashamed of himself for leaving her there, for thinking of her without her expressed permission as he had _touched-imagined-wanted-needed-come!_ But...

  
But...!

  
Tarrant sits back on the bench and clenching his jaw, his fists, his eyes shut, he turns himself toward the doorway above which the holly still hangs. He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes, and nearly sobs at the empty, Alice-less space there.

  
And then he remembers: of course it’s empty! It is always empty unless he is in it! Only then is he able to see Alice there... _if_ she is there.

  
He consults the clock (which had been bullied into minding its manners by the White Queen herself) and frets. He bites his lip, fiddles with his lace cuffs, tugs at his half gloves...

  
Suppose Alice is _still_ waiting for him?

  
Suppose she isn’t...

  _  
Suppose you never know one way or the other..._

  
His hands slide over the work surface of the table and grip the edge... as if the strength of his own arms will be enough to stop him from abandoning his seat.

   
He shouldn’t get up. He’d just bid her farewell. He should let it _be_ farewell. In fact, he thinks as he glances once more at the clock, she is probably at dinner now. Dancing. Laughing. Being charmed by a man who is young and scarless and _interesting_ rather than _off his head_ and has a _future_ that is _full_ of curious things for her to explore and conquer and _know..._

  
Helplessly, he glances toward the doorway again. He should not step under the holly again. He should take it down, bundle it up in a muffler – a wool one, perhaps? – and send it on its merry way...

  _  
“I love you.”_

  
Tarrant shivers. He should not let himself remember that. It had been a dream. Merely a dream. Nothing more...

  
Or had it? Had he not visited _her_ in a dream? (Oh, it had taken him months and months of _trying_ but, in the end, he had done it, hadn’t he?) Is it so impossible that she might have done the same?  

No, he denies. She had _not_ just dreamed him (although he suspects she had done just that very thing - he had been far too forthcoming with the inconvenient truth in that dream for it to have been one of his own making!) nor had she just told him... just said that she... that she... It had only been a dream! Nothing good will come from believing in it! Impossible rubbish that it is!  ... or is it?

_  
Suppose you never know if it was just a dream... or if it was Alice_ _ **herself**_ _who said—_

  
Tarrant can bear the uncertainty no longer! His hands flutter over his trouser fastenings and he checks to make sure he’s decent... and then he stumbles over to the doorway. Is she still there? Has she been waiting all this time?

  
No, he tells himself, she is away. She is dining and dancing and he had dreamed it all himself and it had been his conscience and not Alice that had made him speak so truthfully and she _is not waiting_ and he will _not think_ about what it will mean when he sees she is gone and...!

  
With a fortifying breath, he ducks beneath the holly and...

  
... yes: there is Alice, sitting on the floor with her back against the door frame and her legs curled beneath her beautiful and irreparably wrinkled skirt.

  
Tarrant lets out a long breath and watches her.  She is asleep. And frowning.

  
Knowing he could still turn away - knowing that he _ought_ to turn away and give Alice the gift of a brighter future than his - Tarrant kneels down, carefully braces himself on his arms against the door jamb over her head and peppers her tense brow with butterfly kisses.

  
“Tarrant?” she croaks, turning toward his soft attentions even before she opens her eyes. He has never _heard-seen-received_ a more beautiful thing in his life.

  
“Aye, Alice.”

  
Her eyelids flutter once and then open. Her expression is delighted and unguarded and her smile is warm and _so_ welcoming! “You’re back.”

  
“Of course, I am.” The words sound so confident and yet he had been everything _but_. In fact, he still isn ’t.  “I... I had to confirm...”

  
“Confirm what?” she replies, looking puzzled and on her way to being irked.

  
He shifts away, pulls his arms away from her and watches her sit up with a wince and a hand massaging the small of her back. Tarrant ventures, “I... I was in your dream just now?”

  
“Yes,” she answers, looking very Irked, indeed! “And you left rather abruptly.”

  
“Before as well. I left you on the threshold. A bad habit, it seems. You are often late and I am...”

  
“Hm,” she agrees, arching a brow at him imperiously. He experiences the urge to lean forward and press a kiss to that single brow, but refrains. For the moment.

  
“ _Why_ did you leave so suddenly?” she asks, just as he’d feared she would.

  
He sighs. “Why did you wait?  I expected you to go to Christmas Dinner. To dance and make merry...”

  
She reaches out to him but he intercepts her hand before she can touch him, distract him.

  
“There are better lads than me,” he says baldly, then winces. Perhaps he should have been more circumspect on that point but he fears – should he permit himself – he will dance around the issue for all eternity.

  
Alice shifts onto her knees, pulls her hands from his and _cages_ his cheeks with her palms. “I don’t agree,” she replies. “I thought I made that clear in my dream.”

  
“Did you... do you...” he struggles to ask, to clarify, to establish beyond any doubt whatsoever... despite the fact that he _knows_ disappointment will Crush him should he realize those three words had been misunderstood, taken out of context, rashly uttered.  And yet he suspects it will be better for her if she had _not_ intended for those words to be taken so literally.  But he is lovesick and mad and he cannot help himself from wondering!  “What I mean to say is... In the dream, you indicated that you...”

  
“Yes, I love you,” she says without a moment’s more hesitation.

  
She shuffles closer to him. No doubt her skirt is snagging on splinters and getting soiled with dust. “Yes, I have been waiting here for you since you left. No, I will not be dancing with another man tonight. Nor any other night.”

  
His hands move along her arms without even bothering to ask if they might do so. Alice, thankfully, does not seem to mind. “But, Alice... your plans, your _adventures..._ ”

  
“Yes,” she continues, “I am still going to leave for China. And, yes, I’ll be taking the holly because... I want you to be there with me... even if it’s just like this.”

  
“And I... I want to be there with you, Alice,” he assures her although he doubts she needs reassurance as much as _he_ needs to hear himself say it, promise it. He hates his need for her - hates what he selfishly demands of her - and yet he is not strong enough to even put up a token protest. He will not be able to bid her farewell again; he feels it in his soul; he cannot be without her.

Tarrant takes a deep breath and damns himself, his weakness, his want as he says, “But will you please permit me to give you one thing?”

  
She leans toward him. “You may give me anything you like... except another _fairfarren_ ,” she replies with a steely gleam in her eyes and her lips curved into a very Alice-y smile.

  
He helplessly returns her smile to her along with one of his own, and, reaching into his pockets, seeks out the various tools of his trade that he always keeps on his person. A clip-sew-snip later and he holds out the creation – so insignificant and so quickly and cheaply made! A truly _accurate_ representation of all he will ever be able to offer her, pathetically transitory baubles at best – and his heart breaks for her as she accepts it and slips the band made from braided ribbons onto her finger. It rests where an engagement ring would – where one of gold and sapphires _might_ have rested had his own handily-made trinket not already - brazenly! - claimed the space.

  
“I will never take it off,” she tells him before he can beg her to do that very thing. He should not speak for her; Alices should not be spoken for by Mad Hatters! Alices deserve much more than a man who drinks the queen’s tea only because she is gracious enough to permit it.

  
“And this is for you,” Alice says, calling his attention beck to her. He watches as she pulls a ribbon from her hair, causing the left half of the intricate style to collapse and cascade onto her shoulder.  For a moment, he is distracted by the similarity between that fateful motion and  the inevitable tumble of a too-tall stack of bolts of fabric. And then the ribbon in her grasp flutters, draws his gaze. He watches as she then ties it carefully around his wrist, with a bow.

  
“Do you... do you mean it, Alice?” he asks, blinking as his vision blurs again and again. “This? You? Me? ... us?” The last word, daringly conceived, is hesitantly spoken on a rasp.

  
Alice snuggles into his arms, kisses his collar, breathes deeply of his scent. “Yes,” she answers.

  
Tarrant leans his cheek against the crown of her head and holds her close. Yes, he knows that he has nothing to offer her except himself. He knows that Alice does not need him to look after her; as the White Queen’s Champion, she will never want for anything here in Underland, under the White Queen’s rule, for the remainder of her life.

He knows that Alice seeks adventure, that she will go to this place called China on a ship, but he knows he will share a doorway with her because she had asked him to, because – for some strange reason – she believes she needs him. But he knows the truth: she doesn’t need him. And yet here she is, insistently nuzzling against his neck, her arms around his waist and...

  
And...

   
It is inconceivable, but it is Real: despite all that he cannot give her, she wants _him._

  
And he has never been more aware of the fact that Alices are not only Muchy, but Stubborn once they set their mind to something. Someone.

  
Yes, he wishes for More for her... but she has Chosen.

  
Who is he – a mad hatter – to argue?

  
Tarrant sighs, relents. Gives in.  He is hers... for as long as she desires him.  And considering the innate stubbornness of Alices, he suspects - with a heart that swells painfully large with Hope - that she will wish to keep him for a Very Long Time.  


  
And if that is the case, then, one day, when Alice has finished her adventure, he will send her another dream; he will show her how to take down the holly and how to tie it in her hair and how to focus on her heart’s desire... so that she will be able to step through the doorway and into Underland again.

  
But for now, he has her in his arms. He has his ribbons around her finger and the bow she’d tied around his wrist. It’s enough. It is _more_ than Enough. It is nearly Too Much...!

  
He blinks as another thought comes to him.

  
“Alice?” he whispers.

  
“Hm?”

  
“I haven’t stolen your heart, have I?”

  
She giggles. “No more than I have stolen yours.”

  
“Ah, good. We’re all right, then,” he murmurs into her tangled, unstyled fall of hair. “For I’ve already given it to you freely.”

  
And, for the first time in a _long_ time, he feels just so: Free.

  


  


  


The End... until next year!  (^__~)  
Er... maybe...?

 

*~*~*~*

Notes:

So, it's subtle, but I left some hints about how the dreams worked and how the expectations of the dreamer color the dream: just like Tarrant's preconceptions colored his dream of Alice (he expected that she'd forgotten him so - in the dream - Alice didn't recognize him right away), Alice more or less _demands_ the truth from Tarrant in her dream of him.  When she asks him a question, he answers with helpless honesty.  Gotta love a Take-Charge!Alice.  (^__~)

Also, while Tarrant feels Alice might be "better off" with someone else, in the end he trusts her to know what she wants and as it's the same thing as what he wants, he can't bring himself to fight it.  I hope that came across - this understanding they reach, I mean: she wants him; he trusts her; they both find peace in that.  And peace, really, is what Christmas is supposed to be about, right?  Peace and hope... on the threshold of a new year.

 


	4. Ever Evergreen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Notes: Written for the 2011 winter holidays. The following two installments are the continuations of the fic "On the Threshold of Christmas." Alice/Tarrant Hightopp pairing. Sometimes adorable and sometimes angsty. You’ve been warned.

Ever Evergreen

 

Tarrant Hightopp’s favorite time of day is never the same from day to day despite the fact that he never deviates from the same ritual of preparation.  When the tiny clipping of holly residing above the doorway between his workshop and storeroom twitches with merry excitement, Tarrant immediately lays aside whatever hat-in-making happens to be in his hands, straightens his top hat, adjusts his vest, tugs down his cuffs, thanks the little sprig of holly for its silent announcement, and then places first one foot and then the other on the threshold beneath it.

And then – _finally_ – Tarrant’s very favorite and most treasured thing in all the world appears.

“Alice!” he exclaims gently, feeling his lips stretch into a wide smile.  And then he inhales deeply as Alice herself steps into his arms, no doubt mussing his vest and even knocking his hat crooked with the exuberance of her welcome.

Yes, this is his very favorite thing in all the world.

When she leans back, she obligingly tilts her chin up for a kiss, and who is he – just a mad hatter – to deny her?  After a moment, he gathers her hands in his own and carefully removes them from around his shoulders.  It’s not that he wouldn’t like to continue feeling her – warm and welcoming – pressed against him thus, but he has already lost control of himself once upon her threshold.  He would rather not repeat the experience.   No matter Alice’s insistence otherwise.

“How are you faring today, fair Alice?” he asks, holding her hands in his own stained, scraped and bandaged ones.  The ring of braided ribbon he had made for her a few short weeks ago – a _Christmas present_ she’d called it – still sits with colorful brazenness upon her finger.  Each time he sees it, his heart breaks a little at the sight, and then heals once more, becoming twice as large.

“I went to see the ship today!” she exclaims as loudly as she dares within her family home.

“The one you will sail to that China place upon?” he confirms with a twitch of his brows, wondering if the seas Above are as obliging to transporting travelers as those in Underland.

“The very one!” she whispers loudly through a delighted grin.  “I’ve seen my quarters which are very small and I’ll have to share the room with the captain’s wife and now I’ll have to pack my things.”

Tarrant smiles, brushing his thumbs back and forth across her knuckles, loving how her fingers cling to his so tightly.  “I have no doubt you’ll subdue even the most unruly of items.”

“I can’t take much with me on the voyage – space is ever so limited, you see, so I must prioritize my essentials and thank goodness I won’t have to wear a corset because if that were the case, I think I’d mutiny – that’s what they call it, did you know, when the crew rises up against the ship’s captain, but I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that, either, because I’ve met the captain and he’s a lovely gentleman—”

“Alice,” he gently prompts.

“Oh, yes.  So sorry!  Where was I?”

“Space is limited.”

“Yes, space is _very_ limited.”

“And you’ll have to prioritize.”

She nods, her eyes glittering at the mention of the challenge before her.

Tarrant tries to resist looking up, toward the holly over their heads.

Somehow, Alice seems to guess the inquiry weighing on his mind.

“Of course I’m bringing the holly – _you_ – with me.  If you’d still like to come, that is.  I won’t have many opportunities to visit with you as I’ll be sharing a room with someone and I may have to leave suddenly if I’m interrupted.”

How silly she is!  Doesn’t she know that each and every visit she gives him is an incomparable treasure?

“In fact,” she continues, a frown creasing her brow, “I’m not sure if you’ll actually be able to see my cabin or the house in China, so I can’t even promise you a view of new places, but—”

“Alice,” he murmurs, delighted by her concern and forethought.  It is true: he cannot see anything beyond Alice.  In fact, to him, it appears as if she is standing on _his_ threshold rather than he is standing on _hers._   But no matter.  “Of course I would like to accompany you.  Nothing could make me happier.  Not even all the treacle in all the wells of Underland.”  And he is a great lover of sweets, as the unfortunate condition of several of his tea-stained teeth can verify.

Tarrant shares the threshold with Alice for several days thereafter until she explains apologetically as she leans her cheek against his shoulder, “I shall have to take the holly down after this.  We depart in the morning.”

“Then the next time I see you, you will be aboard and abroad.”

“Did you make a rhyme?” she asks as he gently pets her hair.  She doesn’t even gasp when two strands become caught in his bandages.

He kisses the top of her head in apology.  She snuggles into is collar in acceptance.

“I do not believe I did, but perhaps I rhymed in Uplandish custom?” he ventures.

“That must be it.”

Tarrant spends the next few days virtually glaring at the holly over his threshold, waiting for it to shiver with happiness and signal Alice’s presence upon his threshold.  When at last the little plant twitches, Tarrant leaps to his feet, catches the toe of his boot on the edge of the bench and windmills his arms wildly to keep from planting his face squarely on his sewing machine platform.  Regaining his balance, he stumbles toward the threshold, hat crooked, vest skewed, and cuffs untidy.

“Alice!” he announces with delight.  “How have you—oh.”

He is given a glimpse of a pale face and tired Alice eyes a moment before her forehead lands on his shoulder and her lank hair obscures her expression from his view.

She mumbles something into his waistcoat that sounds like “seasick.”

“A dreadful ailment,” he commiserates, patting her shoulder gently, wondering if he ought to call for Thackery and his hare-brained remedies.

Alice gasps each breath softly.  “I swear—”

“You mustn’t swear, dear Alice.  The sailors would be quite discombobulated.”

She snorts.  “Ugh… I’ve never felt so ill.  If this boat is hit by one more wave—”

“I shall hold you tightly until it passes.  That way, if you lose your feet, perhaps mine will be able to guide yours back to where they ought to be.”

“Your assistance is greatly appreciated, sir,” she whispers and her trembling arms wrap tightly around his waist.

Tarrant doesn’t object this time as she leans on him for support.  He wishes with all his heart that he could tuck her into bed and brush her hair back for her, perhaps fetch her a cool cloth for her brow and a cup of chamomile tea for her stomach.

“It will pass,” Alice confides, perhaps sensing his misery.  “In week, perhaps two…  It will pass.”

“In the meantime, you may call upon both me and my waistcoat, dear Alice,” he assures her, noting her fondness for it as she rubs her cheek against the weave.

“I’ll have to go soon.  When dinner is over, Mrs. Warren will be back to check on me…”

“Will you eat?”

“A little,” she promises and he doesn’t press for more.

Indeed, she is much improved the next time the holly over his storeroom door twitches.

Once again, Tarrant discovers a warm (and much restored) Alice embracing him tightly.  “We’ve had horrible weather and Mrs. Warren was impossible to get away from but she’s finally agreed to give me an evening to myself and _I missed you.”_

“Hardly!” he declares, pressing a single finger to her lips when she rears back, her eyes sparking with fire, ready to argue with passionate vehemence.  He informs her, “You are very much on target, my Alice.”

She relaxes as his fingertips dance along her spine, reminding her of her aim, which is very true, indeed.  “Luckily for us both!”  And then she takes a deep breath and asks a question that warms his heart, “What are you working on today, Tarrant?”

 _I’m working on our future,_ he wants to say but doesn’t.  He would rather she not realize the depths of his destitution.  He needs no recognition for his efforts if, in fact, he is successful.  Alice’s comfort and happiness will be reward of more than sufficient quantity.

“I’ve decided to apply my skills to other markets,” he replies.

“Hats for cats?” she guesses after a moment of contemplation.

He giggles.  “A certain Cheshire Cat with whom I believe you’re acquainted has very generously agreed to be my first customer.”

“And what an unbearably smug grin he must be wearing these days!”  Alice’s smile is luminous.  Tarrant cannot find it in himself to regret the lost sleep or the sore, pin-pricked fingers that making hats for Underland’s  fashion-conscious creatures has caused him.  True, they cannot pay him in coin, but with enough favors and barters perhaps… well, one never knows what might prove useful.

He does not see Alice as often as he would like over the following weeks, but they manage to cross paths beneath the holly (although sometimes only briefly) at least twice a week.  Tarrant fills his time with hatting cats and dormice, monkeys and hedgehogs.

“Yah really think this suits me?” Mally inquires, striking a pose.

Tarrant smiles with delight and furnishes a small looking glass for her.  “A hat for a dormouse of distinction,” he lisps happily.

“Maybe it is, but yah shouldn’ be workin’ so hard, Hatter.  Ain’t Alice lookin’ after yah?  Don’ she ever tell yah tah get some rest?”

In fact, she does.

“You look tired, Tarrant,” Alice whispers, caressing the shadows beneath his green eyes with gentle fingertips.  “You ought to rest…”

“I am,” he replies, giving in to a moment of weakness, tightening his arms around her and leaning his cheek against her crown.  “Now I am.”

But he refuses to lighten his workload, not so long as Alice still wears his ring upon her finger.

“Alice!” he exclaims one evening when he ducks beneath the holly and discovers Alice holding out an assortment of fabrics.  “We stopped in port and I saw these and I thought of you and…”

She hesitates with endearing shyness, her arms drooping slightly.  “Well, I don’t suppose you’d find a use for them?”

Smiling, he gently frames her face in his hands and kisses her softly and thoroughly until her fingers clench in the delicate fabrics and her breaths become shallow pants.  “Thank you, Alice,” he lisps.  “I shall make you something very fine with these, if you’ll permit me.”

Glassy-eyed and dazed, she nods helplessly.  Somehow, Tarrant finds the strength to resist taking her measurements with only his bare hands.  _Another day,_ he promises himself, thinking (helplessly) of a time when he will be awarded that liberty.

Many hats, exotic gifts from Alice, long nights at the worktable, missed tea times, visits from his irritated friends, and bruised shins and throbbing toes from hasty, stumbling races toward the threshold later, Tarrant hears delightful news.

“We’ll be arriving in China soon!”

He giggles at Alice’s whisper, hoarse with excitement.

“No more rushed visits, Tarrant!  No more waiting until Mrs. Warren is out.”  She bites her lip and embraces him so tightly he actually feels the wind being knocked from him.

“That is marvelous news,” he agrees, wondering if knowing that he and Alice’s future visits beneath the threshold will be uninterrupted, unintruded upon,  and uninvaded by others is truly the best thing for his self-control.  He still remembers when he’d lost himself with Alice on the evening of her family’s Christmas festivities.  Alice had forgiven him for that once.  He’d rather not become a repeat offender.

As expected, several days pass before the holly announces Alice’s presence again.  This time, knowing that their meeting will not be rushed or furtive, Tarrant calmly stands, makes himself presentable, and strides sedately toward the threshold.  It is with some surprise that, rather than finding Alice waiting to step into his arms, he discovers her seated upon a cushion with a small tea service spread out upon a small, woven rug.

“What a delightful surprise!” he enthuses.

Alice agrees and educates him, “They take tea on the floor here in China!  Isn’t that marvelous?”

He concurs and then holds up a single finger, begging for a moment during which he fetches a cushion for himself and makes himself comfortable opposite Alice.

He watches her pour their cups, enraptured by the sight of her hands so smooth yet so capable.  “Low-altitude tea, delightful!”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any sugar or cream…”

 “I take it you have successfully relocated to your new residence,” he surmises as he accepts a cup of an oddly green beverage from Alice.

“Yes.  I’m in the captain’s house and I have two lovely rooms all to myself.”

“Wonderful!”  And potentially disastrous to his resolve not to get carried away with Alice-flavored kisses and Alice-scented perfume and—

Oh, dear.

He clears his throat and takes a sip of the strange, steaming tea.

Alice fiddles with her own cup in silence.  Very awkward silence.

Tarrant ventures hesitantly, “Would you like to hear a riddle?”

Alice smiles.  “Yes, if you would like to hear an answer.”

He grins.  “Very much so.”

Although it becomes increasingly difficult for Tarrant to keep himself from holding Alice too long, from kissing her lips too much, from lingering too late on her threshold, he manages to restrict his visits to the custom they had enjoyed before her voyage.  It nearly tears him in two when he bids her good night each time, but he manages, thanks to firm reminders to himself (by Himself) of the work awaiting him, work that will lead to him being able to offer her perhaps not as much as she deserves but something More than he currently possesses.

At times, he happily obliges her.  For instance, it is a simple – and gladly undertaken – task to listen to Alice confess her frustrations with language difficulties and the strange habit of bullheaded stubbornness and selective deafness that most English men seem to have in common.

“You might occasionally pose a riddle,” he suggests at one point.

“I might, if I wished them to become chronically confused.”  After a moment of contemplation, during which Tarrant wiggles his brows meaningfully, Alice admits, “Which might prove useful…”

At other times, the things Alice asks of him are not so easy to indulge.  In fact, there are many Alice requests he finds himself desperately refusing: a three-times-fourth kiss, a time-defying embrace, a whisper beneath his hat and in his ear.  He refuses as gallantly as his frantically beating heart allows until one evening nearly three months following her arrival in China, Alice dares a bit too Muchly.

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” Alice murmurs into his collar.  She lifts her chin and brazenly touches her lips to his neck.  He grits his teeth and fights back the full-body shiver so that only his toes tingle and his ears heat.

Oh, how he wants to stay!  How desperately he wishes he could.  How tempted he is use the pair of Alice strands he’d stolen months ago to anchor himself to her so that he might go wherever she goes!  But no.  _No!_   He mustn’t.

He mustn’t, but his inner strength is buckling.  He is too exhausted to continue resisting her.  Too worn – like a pair of shoes that have trodden all of Underland, thrice counterclockwise – to hold himself together.  He recalls the feel of Alice against him, giving herself to him as she had in that brief moment of madness he’d experienced nearly a dozen months ago.

Cornered like a dormouse by a Jubjub, Tarrant does what any self-respecting Hatter would do: he panics. 

He twitches backward, knocking the brim of his hat against the doorjamb.  “I—I—I’m afraid I can’t.”  His throat locks down, shutting away all the other words that are clamoring to burst free: his shout of acceptance and his myriad of excuses and the platitudes that might win him further liberties – a caress against her neck, a hand on her hip, his lips pressed to the soft space behind her ear…

“I must go.  Good night, Alice.”

As he more or less lurches for the safety of his workroom, he dimly hears a quiet “Good night…” behind him.

The next time he meets Alice on the threshold, he does so only after he is absolutely sure that he is in control of himself.  It pains him to make Alice wait the extra few minutes that it requires for him to give himself a stern talking-to, but really what other options does he have?

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, dear Alice,” he says as he steps beneath the holly.

Alice smiles.  “That’s all right.  I can’t expect you to be available every time I call.”

“Have I not been?” he wonders aloud, concerned that he might have missed the holly’s warning once – and if it had happened once, then it is possible it might have occurred _more than once!_ – while he’d rested his eyes and weary head upon the cloth-strewn worktable.

“Oh, of course you have.  You’ve always come.  It’s just… you seem so tired and… maybe it would better if you would call upon me when you have time.  I’ve been very demanding and—”

He quite appreciates that about her!  In fact, those very words are on the tip of his tongue, but Alice barrels onward.

“Is there some way to know when you’re here?  Waiting for me?”

It is only after Tarrant has lectured her on how to request such a service from the sprig of holly over her own doorway and bids her a good night that he realizes something very important.

He hadn’t kissed Alice today.  In fact, she hadn’t reached out to him.

Not once.

This disturbs him even as he breathes a sigh of relief.  Perhaps it might not be so bad to have a few visits such as that one?  Just until he is strong enough to withstand her undeniably wonderful affections again?  Just until he feels he can trust himself once more?

Days pass, each one an exquisite torture: Alice had given him leave to call upon _her_ next and oh how he would like nothing more but, perhaps if he finishes just one more hat, perhaps after he’s closed his eyes for a bit, washed up, had tea...  When he next steps beneath the holly, he finds a note propped up against the wooden molding, a letter from Alice.

She apologizes for her absence; she has left for the office already and will be returning at dinnertime.  Tarrant crushes his disappointment ruthlessly as he returns to his workbench and props the note up against his most recently completed hat.   Turning away, he collects yet another order request and sets to work.  If Alice is busy, then so should he be.  Certainly, her note will remind him when it is time to call again.  Only, when he looks up suddenly, having dozed off (the fault of the soothing and mesmerizing glow of candlelight, he’s sure!), he realizes that it is well past dinnertime and there had been no reminder.  He glances toward the hat upon whose brim he had set the note and is surprised by what he does not see.

There is no note waiting there at all.

Of course there isn’t!  Tarrant swears as he lurches up, wondering if Alice might still be awake, if she might still be waiting for his call.  He should have remembered that things given from one threshold are only real so long as the recipient _holds onto them_ when he leaves the doorway.

_Foolish, brainless, thoughtless, mindless!  Where is your head, Hatter?  Did the Red Queen take it after all?_

He braces himself to enter the threshold, steps forward and smacks squarely into Alice.

“Oh!” she startles.  Her eyes meet his momentarily and then her gaze shifts past him, _through_ him.  “Yes, I’m coming Mrs. Warren.  I merely tripped.”

And then she is gone.

Tarrant stands on the threshold for a long time, waiting for her return.  He dares not look at the clock when he returns to his worktable.  His aching back and upset stomach are evidence enough of a Very Long Wait.

The next day, however, luck is with him.  Alice joins him there only a few moments after he’d stepped beneath the holly.

Many tumble-jumbled apologies later – from both he and she – and they are smiling bashfully at one another from opposite sides of the doorway.  Tarrant wrestles with his tired thoughts, wondering what he might say.

Alice doesn’t wait for him to speak.  She leans toward him, expression as solemn as he’s ever seen it, and informs him, “You’re still very tired.  You should rest.  We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Day after day is more of the same.  More of the same Alice non-touches and non-kisses and non-smiles.  Day after day, he bids her good day or good night only to be met with an increasingly knotted stomach once he leaves the doorway until one day, he notices that Alice is clasping her hands behind her back, not meeting his gaze, only nodding absently to his greeting.

In this moment, he is gripped utterly by heart-stopping terror; Tarrant realizes that the very young woman opposite him isn’t Alice at all or even Almost Alice.  In fact, she seems to be Not Hardly Alice.

“Alice,” he lisps, an apology so large swelling within him that he’s sure he’ll burst.  _He_ has done this, he knows.  He hadn’t called enough or held her enough – though for a very good reason! – and now…

“Yes?” she asks, glancing up.  It is only a glance, but it speaks volumes.  An anthology’s worth of them.

“You are not well,” he observes.

“It’s nothing,” she continues and smiles.  Or rather, she tries.

“Alice,” he whispers tremulously, reaching for her hands.  Her fingers rest placidly in his grasp, not clutching, not even curling around his bandages.

“Tarrant?  Are you all right?  You look pale.”

He supposes he is.

“What has happened?” she presses, searching his expression.

“I fear I’ve lost something terribly important.  Something vital.”

Alice’s concern eases and her smile is more ready this time.  He is almost reassured.  “Well, then, where did you last see it?  Let’s start there and work our way out.”

“In,” he gently corrects.

“In,” she echoes agreeably.  “Come now.  Where did you last have it?”

“Here,” he replies, his thumbs moving restlessly over the back of her hands.  “Alice.”

Her frown returns as she tries to puzzle out his meaning.  He wishes he could explain further, but he simply can’t.  Won’t.  He wants to _show_ her but that is too dangerous, too tempting.

In his solemn silence, she seems to find her answers.  “Tarrant,” she sighs, closing her eyes briefly.  The retreat alarms him.  Alice has never hidden from him before.

Daringly and without permission, he steps closer and wraps his arms around her.  “My fault, all my fault, Alice.”

“No, no,” she argues back tiredly.  “It’s everything: my work, this place, the wretched Christmas season.  Strange how I used to adore it and even last year it wasn’t so bad even though I missed my father terribly, but now, so far from home and family…”

“Family?” he whispers, startled and unsettled.

“Yes, that’s what Christmas is meant to be, a day with one’s family.”  She sighs against his jacket lapel.  “Never mind.  It’s nothing.  I wouldn’t expect you to understand.  Put it out of your mind.”

“I am afraid that is not possible,” he grits out, his fingers curling into the spare fabric of her blouse’s ruched shoulders.

“I know.  Underland doesn’t have Christmas.  You told me.”

“No!” he snarls, shoving her away from him and locking his elbows.  He can feel the rage rising within him at the very thought that Alice doesn’t consider him to be—“Family.”  He voice is grating and harsh.  Alice reaches for his face and he knows the heat he feels burning his eyes is real.  Her arms are too short to bridge the distance between them, however.  She clutches his elbows instead.

“Tarrant!” she calls softly.

He doesn’t hear her, doesn’t _wish_ to hear her.

“I am not your family, Alice?” he rumbles in a guttural growl.  Why has he been working so hard?  “Day and night!” he hisses.  Why has he been trying to control himself so strictly?  “For you!”  And after all he has done and hoped and dreamed, she says this?  “Not family?!”

“Tarrant… I didn’t mean…”  Her hands flutter towards him, her fingers gripping his shirtsleeves tightly.  A few moments ago, he would have basked in her need for him, but not now.  Now it is too little, too late.  He shoves her out of the threshold and pivots smartly away.  As he takes a step into his workroom, he feels a gentle tug on his top hat’s sash, as if hesitant fingers had reached for it but closed around it just a little too slowly.

Tarrant keeps walking.  His anger is too wild for him to remain still.  He thinks of nothing but Alice’s heartbreaking and infuriating claim – _“Not family!”_ – and determinedly ignores both the gentle shivering of the holly above the door and what it signifies.

 

(To be continued…)


	5. Deck the Halls

Deck the Halls

 

“So _now_ yah have time for tea?” Mally accuses.

Tarrant closes his eyes and sighs.  This had been a bad idea.  He shouldn’t have come here expecting his seat to still be warm.  It has been weeks – or perhaps months – since he’s made time for Mally and Thackery.  He cannot expect them to forgive him for the lapse of friendship.

“Family,” he utters gruffly as he plops himself down in the chair at the end of the table.  Mally and Thack can stay or go, but he does not have the strength to even pour himself a cup of tea let alone bow himself out of the room.  He slouches against the cushions and tries to think of a song that might cheer him up.  But each one that comes to him reminds him of Alice.

Mally heaves a blustery sigh.  “What’s happened, Hatter?”

He shakes his head.  The words are too horrible to speak.

“Tea,” Thackery whispers and Tarrant feels the edge of a saucer being pressed against his elbow which is resting rather rudely upon the table.

Tarrant opens his eyes, sees a clean cup filled to the brim with sugar cubes and sighs, a wistful smile tugging his lips.

“I have missed many teas,” he remarks.  An apology sticks in his throat.  He doesn’t want to apologize as he can’t find it in him to regret missing those teas in exchange for the future he’d been so busily working towards.  Earlier, that very thought had only renewed his rage and he had permitted it to.  And then, once he’d exhausted himself, he’d shuffled beneath the very still holly, knees locked and arms bracing himself upright in the doorway.  He’d waited for Alice there for a long time.

She hadn’t come.

He tried to write a note but, somehow, the moment the quill touched the parchment his hands had suddenly become all thumbs, stuttered words, and scribbles.

He does not know how to make things right between himself and Alice.  He doesn’t know if he can.  When that fear had opened up its jaws and nearly consumed him, he’d fled here, to the tea room, in hopes of simply escaping the darkness.

“Yah been workin’ too hard,” Mally says quietly as Tarrant continues to smile down at the sugar cubes.

“For Alice,” he explains, perhaps unnecessarily.  “For the Champion.  I can’t be a Champion,” he continues with truth so sharp it is only marginally more tolerable than brutal honesty.  “But I can be a hatter.”

“The Hatter of all Underland!” Thackery corrects irritably.

“I am trying,” he agrees.

“Maybe Alice don’ want no Hatter of all Underland,” Mally proposes.  “Have yah thought o’ that?”

He hadn’t, quite honestly.  “I—”

“Get th’ lass somethin’ pretty!” Thackery coaches him suddenly.

Mally concurs eagerly and presses, “Come on now, Hatter, what does the Alice like?”

It’s a grand idea, and he adores his good friends even more for discerning the discord between himself and Alice without him having to relive the wretched memory of it, but unfortunately… “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he mutters, frowning.

But no, that’s not true.  Alice had mentioned something important, hadn’t she?  Something he could perhaps give her?

“Family,” he repeats.  “And Christmas.”

“What’s a Christmas?” Mally asks absently as she saws off a corner of scone with her sword.

Tarrant shrugs helplessly.

“Have yah buttered the gears?” Thackery suggests, swinging his pocket watch around for emphasis.

“I’m not sure buttering would aid in this situation.”

“Well, there’s nothin’ for it, then,” Mally says.  “Yah’ll have tah ask the Alice what a Christmas is.  Then, after she explains it, then yah can give her one.”

What a bizarre concept!  Therefore, it is without a doubt— “A splendid idea!”  Tarrant claps his hands together.  “Truly, you are a mouse of many wonders, Mally.”

“Naw,” she mutters bashfully.  “I was jus’ imaginin’ what Alice would say if she were here.”

And, with a bit of luck, one day, she will be.  He only has to mend their discord and prove himself worthy of her regard and perhaps, yes, _perhaps…!_

Tarrant implements his plan immediately following a very pleasant and invigorating tea, a hot bath, and a thorough grooming.  Dressed in his very best, he tucks the two stolen strands of Alice’s hair beneath his pillow and lies down upon his infrequently used bed.

“Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream,” Tarrant sings softly, closing his eyes and folding his hands together over his belly.  “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream…”

And dream he does.  The strands of hair do the trick, easily bridging the gap between his dreams and Alice’s.  In the next instant he is there, standing beside her bed as he had almost precisely one year ago (although without the assistance of any Alice strands beneath his pillow and oh what a challenge _that_ had been!), watching her sleep.  Only, this time she does not smile softly into her pillow.  She is curled up in an Alice-y ball, her left hand clasping her right tightly in its fist.  Her thumb rests beside Tarrant’s ribbon ring and, not far away, he spies a tear stain upon her pillowcase beside her cheek.

Swallowing down the knot of guilt in his throat, Tarrant reaches out and gently brushes Alice’s hair.  She stirs, moving toward his hand and leaning into his touch.

“Alice,” he whispers, willing the recent heartache and the previous weeks’ misunderstandings as far away from them both as possible, “wake up, Alice.  It’s Christmas.”

 

 

Alice opened her eyes to the best sight she could have imagined.  Kneeling beside her bed, Tarrant Hightopp smiled at her with delight.  His green eyes sparkled and his wild orange bows wiggled as she returned his grin.

“Tarrant?” she whispered.

He nodded happily.

Uncaring of the fact that she was dressed in only her nightgown, Alice tossed aside the covers and sat up.  Tarrant giggled when she threw her arms around his shoulders.  She did not ask him why he was here or how he had managed the journey from Underland.  These thoughts did not even occur to her.  The thought on the forefront of her mind was, in fact: “It’s Christmas!”

“Is it?” Tarrant inquired gently, rubbing a bandaged hand over her back.  Was it her imagination or did he nuzzle against her hair, inhaling deeply?  Perhaps it was, she admitted as he leaned back and gave her a guileless smile.  “And may I ask a question in addition to this one?”

“Certainly!”

“What is a Christmas?”

Alice stared at him for a moment before she reached for his hands and squeezed them tightly.  “Oh, yes, that’s right!  You don’t have Christmas in Underland.  Well, come with me.  Let’s make some tea and see how much snow has fallen during the night.”

Tarrant helped her to her feet, which she promptly slid into her slippers, and offered his arm.  “Snow is welcome during Christmas?”

“Very much so!” Alice enthused.  “Piles of it.  White Christmases are the very best!”  Although unfortunately rare in London.

“Curious,” Tarrant remarked, a bemused smile stretching his lips.

Alice guided him downstairs and toward the kitchen.  “Would you like a tour?” she asked.  “I don’t think my mother would mind.”  Although she might mind the fact that Alice was currently entertaining a guest while wearing only her slippers and nightgown…

Shaking off that thought, Alice pulled the tea service down from the cupboard as Tarrant lit the stove for boiling water.  Rising on her tiptoes, Alice braced one hand against the basin and reached for the curtains.  Twitching them aside, she gasped at the pearly, glittering landscape that the kitchen garden had become sometime during the night.

“Marvelous!” she breathed.  “Tarrant, just look at this!”

He obligingly glanced past her shoulder.  “It looks very white.”

“Very _right,”_ she corrected him with a wide grin.  They took tea and ate scones.  And then Alice grabbed his hands and pulled him from the mess on the kitchen table and down the hall.

“Where are we going now?” he asked, grinning luminously.

“You haven’t yet made the acquaintance of the Christmas tree.”

He blinked with surprise when she tugged him into the parlor rather than toward the front door.  And then he blinked a bit more at the tree standing against the wall in the room.

“Oh, no!  It’s bare!” Alice exclaimed, but even as the words left her mouth, she noticed a bag of brightly colored yarn, a stack of brown packaging paper and colored oils.  “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to decorate it ourselves.”  She didn’t remark on the cheerful fire already burning in the hearth.  She simply sat herself down on the rug and reached for an orange pastel crayon.

“What are we making?” Tarrant asked, sitting down beside her and removing a pair of scissors from his vest pocket.

“Anything we like,” Alice declared.  “Traditionally, we place candles on the tree and we hang up little angel dolls in white gowns, but this is _our_ tree so, if we want to make little blue caterpillars, March hares, and Cheshire cats…”  She grinned.

“I’m afraid the latter will not be of the vanishing variety,” Tarrant whispered.

“That’s all right,” she replied.  “They’ll be less troublesome that way.”

Tarrant agreed and set to work.  Of course, with the speed at which he worked, the tree was decorated in mere moments, it seemed.   She leaned back on her hands and watched as Tarrant placed a figure of the White Queen at the top of the tree.

“It’s lovely,” she informed him.

He stood back to admire the overall picture.  “A very festive tree,” he finally agreed.

As he admired the tree, Alice admired him, from his tattered top hat to his gaily striped stockings.

“Stockings!” she cried, scrambling to her feet and turning toward the hearth.  There, leaning against the stones, Alice found two stockings, both pleasantly full.  One was green with orange and teal stripes.  She held this one out to Tarrant and collected a blue stocking with little white snowflakes embroidered on it for herself.

“I hope the second stocking is within this one,” he teased, accepting it.

“If you’ve been good this year,” Alice explained with a grin, “it will hold many nice things.”

“And if I’ve been naughty?” he lisped.

Alice laughed.  “Then you’ll find nothing but coal.”

“To warm my cold heart?”

Alice reached out and placed a hand against his chest.  “Not cold,” she said after a long, breathless moment.  Looking up into his eyes, she whispered, “Definitely not cold.”

“Mayhap ye’re righ’,” Tarrant brogued softly.

Alice stepped back, smiling apologetically.  “Of course I am.  You’ve no use for coal at all.”  She took a deep breath as Tarrant giggled softly.  “Now open your stocking.  I _must_ see what’s inside!”

He obliged, deftly removing first a yellow muffler, then a teal knit cap, and finally a pair of mittens – one brown and the other orange.  Alice gasped and, looking down, discovered similar items in her own stocking.

“Of course!” she realized.  “The snow!”

She raced into the hall and began pulling coats from the hall wardrobe and boots from under the bench.  “Come on, Tarrant!  And bring your mittens!”

Moments later, Alice’s laugh reverberated down the quiet, snow-covered streets as she dodged a snowball.  “I should have known you’d enjoy throwing things!” she accused, grabbing onto a lamppost for balance as she swung around, avoiding yet another projectile.

Tarrant’s laugh had never been so delightfully mad.  “I must introduce this marvelous pastime to Thackery!”

When he bent down to collect more snow from the front steps of the house, Alice launched herself at his shoulders.  He seemed to be expecting her, however, turning just in time to grab her around the waist and toss her gently into the empty flowerbed.

“Omph!” she laughed, thumping his shoulders with her mittened fists.  “No fair!”

“This Christmas has rules?” he asked.  His snow-dusted eyebrows arched.

“Yes!  There will be no ruining of the snow angels,” she informed him, dropping her hands and waving them up and down in the snow to make an indentation in the shape of wings.  She couldn’t move her legs, caught as they were between his knees.  “See?” she asked at the conclusion of her demonstration.

For a long moment, he merely studied her.  At length, he finally murmured, “I do.”

The intensity of his stare made her feel very warm and slightly nervous.

And then he smiled.  “I believe I’ve caught an Alice Angel.”

“Or maybe,” Alice replied, reaching for the trailing sash of his top hat, “she’s caught _you.”_

“And gladly caught I would be.”  And then he leaned down and pressed his lips gently to hers.

“Was that a rhyme?” she asked him when he leaned back, ending the soft kiss.

He giggled and helped her to her feet and up the stairs.  “It may have been.  And if it were, it certainly would have been meant for _your_ ears, dear Alice.”

“What else of yours is meant for me?” she brazenly questioned.

“All of me is yours, Alice,” he replied, his gaze solemn, “in time.”

Standing on the steps, on the threshold of the house, she placed her hands on his chest.  “All of you?” she confirmed in a tremulous tone, suddenly startled by the magnitude of his offer, his gift: himself.

“All that is me and mine will be yours if you have no objections, Alice.”

“None whatsoever,” she replied, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his chin, then another to his cheek, and then one more to the corner of his dark lips.  “Would you mind terribly?  Being mine?”

He shook his head slowly, brushing his lips against hers.  “Do,” he softly corrected.  “The question is _Do I mind?_ and the answer, Alice, is no, never, not in the slightest.”

She closed her eyes and leaned into him.  “That’s good, because I don’t want to let you go.”  Something nagged at the corner of her mind, some unpleasant memory that she ought to remember but, oddly enough, only danced further beyond her reach.

She sighed as Tarrant lifted her in his arms and carried her over the threshold.  When Alice opened her eyes next, it was to the sight of a Christmas feast laid out picnic-style in front of the parlor hearth in which the untended fire sill blazed.

Mittens, hats, and mufflers were happily tossed aside.  Alice then leaned against Tarrant’s shoulder as they filled their plates, laughed, and ate.  When her stomach was finally full, Alice took a deep, satisfied breath and found herself suddenly – and very comfortably – lying upon the parlor floor, her head resting on Tarrant’s thigh.  His fingers combed leisurely through her hair.

“This is a lovely Christmas, Tarrant,” she told him.

“Precious,” he agreed.

“But it’s missing something?”

Tarrant held his breath as she thought.  And then the answer came to her.  Sitting up and turning, she held out her hands to him in invitation.  For the life of her, she couldn’t guess why his eyes were so wide and his face so pale, but upon seeing her smile and offered hands, he relaxed.

“What is our Christmas missing, Alice?” he lisped as she helped him to his feet.

“Music,” she told him and gestured toward a small harpsichord.

Tarrant faltered.  “Oh, I’m afraid I’m not very good at—”

“Neither am I,” Alice replied happily, “but there’s no arguing with tradition.”

She pulled him down onto the bench beside her and placed his hands on the keys.  “Let’s see how hideous we can be.”

Giggling, he pressed a few keys.  Alice selected a few of her own.  And, strangely enough, as the song bloomed in the room, it didn’t sound like noisy nonsense.  It sounded wonderful.  It sounded like a hatter’s heartbeat and a dreamer’s whispers.  They played until she leaned sleepily upon his shoulder and only one hand remained on the ivory keys.

“Thank you for showing me what a Christmas is, Alice,” he whispered before pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.  Her last thought was one of argument.  Rather than her showing him, it was he who showed her.  Deciding to debate it with him later, Alice closed her eyes.

 

 

The dream comes back to her even before she opens her eyes.  Alice feels the heat of tears scorch her eyes as she remembers the Tarrant of her dreams, the man who had been unabashedly hers in all ways, the warmth of him and the soft lisp of his voice.  If only it had been _real!_

She cannot bear to think of the last week, of his distance and cordiality.  She is accustomed to such from her colleagues, from the local people who stare at her and make her feel like she is Um from Umbridge, standing naked in the garden.  As strange as it sounds, she only ever feels content and _normal_ when she is with Tarrant.

But not recently.

No, recently she has been just as excruciatingly alone standing with him on the threshold as she has been in the middle of a crowded Chinese street.

What she wouldn’t give to have him as he’d been in her dream, but even that is painful.  Here, in this strange bed, strange house, strange land she has come to rely on him.  He is the only one who understands her.  His very presence offers her a glimpse of the home she misses so much.  And now it’s all ruined.

“Yes, let’s spend another day feeling miserable, Alice,” she chastises herself.  Throwing back the covers, she stands with a deep sigh.  “Onto the first order of business,” she orders herself.

She washes up.  She dresses.  Today is Christmas, after all, and her presence will be expected downstairs, only now… _now_ all she can think of is Tarrant sitting beside her on a blanket with a feast before them, a tree they’d decorated together, mismatched mittens in a heap by the door…

She pauses on the threshold of her room and reaches out at hand to brace herself.  Thinking of the day filled with torturous reminders and unbearable pleasantries that stretches out before her, she shakes her head.  “I can’t do this.  I just… _can’t.”_

“Alices can do all manner of brave and courageous things.”

Gasping, Alice glances up and finds herself unalone in the doorway.

Tarrant continues, smiling with adoration, “In fact, I know one who is the Champion of Underland.”

“Do you?” she hears herself breathe.

“Yes, I feel rather sorry for this poor fellow – a hatter by trade – who loves her more than his own sanity.  He’ll never compare to her greatness, never be able to offer her more than a few fabric baubles and dreams of Christmas.  Of course, he’d rather bite his own tongue than inform his Alice of that fact.”

Frowning, Alice replies with a single word: “Why?”

“She deserves so much and he has so little—“

“No,” Alice says, stepping forward and pressing her fingers to Tarrant’s lips.  “Why would the grandest, maddest, most wonderful hatter in all of Underland ever doubt her love for him?  Why would he think she would ever require more than what he could freely give?”

He blinks, his eyes suspiciously bright with emotion.

Alice looks at him – _really_ looks at him – and remembers the dream.  “You gave me a Christmas, a _marvelous, perfect_ Christmas with you – the person I love most.  What gift could be better?”

He takes a breath but says nothing.

“That’s why you’ve been working so much, hasn’t it?” she guesses, her heart breaking.  “Because I was a champion for one day.”

“For always,” he replies gruffly.

“Well, I’ve retired.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.  I’m simply an Alice now.  Just Alice.”  She hesitates.  “Is that… enough?”

He grasps her hands tightly, his bowtie bobbing with the movements of his Adam’s apple.

“Tarrant,” she whispers, clutching his hands in return.  “Why do you insist on working so hard?”

Managing to swallow some unwieldy emotion, he collects her right hand and studies her ribbon ring.  After a year it is looking very sad and tattered, indeed.  She should have mended it, but she’d feared ruining it with her blundering sewing skills.

He rasps, “Have you ever felt regret?”

“Yes, of course I have.”  A list readily springs to mind, many of the items therein describing her failures to the man standing before her.

Tarrant informs her, “I working so that your most recent regret will become your very last.”

Speechless, Alice can only stand on her toes and press her lips to his.  “Tarrant, I could never regret a moment shared with you, no matter the circumstances.”

And then his arms are around her, his mouth is slanted over hers and the kiss steals her breath.

“All of me is yours, Alice,” he had said in their shared dream and there is quite a lot of him.  His strength and heat and passion and madness and riddles and rhymes.  She recalls the unstoppable force he’d been this time last year upon her threshold.  While she yearns to experience that fantastic madness with him again, she is not sure if she is ready to accept what would come after nor all that he – a man! – is capable of giving her.

“… in time,” his dream self had amended.  Reluctantly, Alice must agree.

When she bumps into the doorframe and Tarrant’s hands move from her face to her shoulders, down her arms and then begin to span her waist she places her palms against his cheeks and pushes back with her kiss, trying to slow him, soften his affection.  Only when she places her hands on his chest and gently shoves does he lift his head.

Gasping, he stares at her, an apology forming in his eyes behind the impassioned glaze.  “Alice…”

“It’s fine, but you were right.  I… I’m not…  You are a grown man and I…”

He sighs and takes a half a step back.  Alice reaches for his hands, refusing to let him retreat too far.  “Yes, I _am_ a man, Alice, and men have insistent desires at times and you…  You are so very Alice and I…  I must apologize.  I have been managing these desires very poorly.”

Alice waits for him to elaborate, her mind full of questions that she doesn’t even begin to know how to ask.

“Recently, I’ve behaved very badly.  You needed me and yet all I could think of was…”  He lowers his gaze, perhaps in shame, and speaks to their joined hands.  “I’m afraid I shall have to begin managing these inclinations before they manage me.  Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t,” she wants to wail in frustration but somehow manages to whisper in a level tone.  “What do you mean by manage?”  She can surmise the content of these desires, but how would they be _managed?_

“I mean, I should like your permission to think of you when I must.”

She frowns.  “Must you think of me?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t sound very enjoyable.”

“It isn’t.”  He looks even more desperate and weakened by the admission.

There’s no hope for it; Alice is still dreadfully confused.  “Tell me of these desires, of what you must do.”

He shakes his head even as he replies, “It is like being a sprig of holly.  Always observing but never partaking in the affection that is so very near.”

“It sounds terribly lonely.”

“It is, but the alternative is unbearable.”

“And that would be?”

“Not permitting myself to think of you at all, which I have been attempting.  Disastrously.  I want… too much, Alice.”

Beginning to understand, she reaffirms her grip on his hands.  “Will you seek out the company of another because I cannot—?”

_“No!”_   He actually shudders with disgust.  “It must be you.  Even a thought of you would be infinitely preferable to _that.”_

“Then think of me.”

He blinks, startled.  “You are giving me your permission?”

Heat blossoming in her cheeks, she nods.  She thinks she can guess now what he is asking her, what he needs.  The specifics elude her, but – in all honesty – she’s not sure she wishes to know the specifics quite yet.  Someday soon, perhaps, but not today.  “You have been here for me,” she tells him simply, hoping he’ll understand what she’s trying to say.

And he does.  Releasing a long breath, he sighs out a soft “thank you.”

It is, after all, the very _least_ she can do for him.  She lifts a hand to his face, traces his nose and cheekbones, pets his wild, orange hair with her fingertips.  “I want to make you as happy as you’ve made me.”

“That is also what I aspire to,” he confesses. 

Alice opens her mouth to assure him of their joint success.

A soft knock on the door makes Alice sigh with frustration.

“Alice?  Are you awake yet, dear?” Mrs. Warren calls.

“Pardon me, Tarrant,” Alice murmurs and then raises her voice to the visitor at her sitting room door, “Yes, Mrs. Warren.  I will be down very shortly!”  She gives Tarrant a sad smile.  “Someday,” she says, “we won’t have to worry about interruptions all the time.”

“Someday,” he agrees.  He then pulls her hand to his chest and leans in to press a lingering kiss to her cheek.  “Happy Christmas, Alice.”

“It is now,” she answers.  “Happy Christmas, Tarrant.”

His response is a luminous smile.  She moves to leave the threshold but then pauses and turns back to say, “I’ve been told that New Year’s here is an evening of special magnificence.   I’d very much like to dream that with you.”

“Then I will tell you how.  Tomorrow, dear Alice?”

“Tomorrow, my hatter.”

Smiling, she steps out of the threshold, releasing his hand only at the very last moment.  Tomorrow cannot come soon enough, but it will come and that is all that matters.

 

 

THE END... until next year.


End file.
